


Definitely St. Andrews

by beaubete



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Bullying, Circle Jerk, Come Eating, Multi, Mutual Masturbation, Peer Pressure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 13:35:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4223649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charlie wants to play a game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Definitely St. Andrews

**Author's Note:**

> My first Kingsman fic that is exclusively about the Kingsmen! The first time I saw the movie, the "definitely St. Andrews" joke jumped out at me, and this is the mental image it left behind....

And it starts because he gets a glance at Eggy’s cock while they’re at the toilets and refuses to believe that thing is real.  It would be God’s eternal joke to give the reverse discrimination kid a cock like an elephant’s trunk; Charlie’s still gawping—discreetly, mind—when Eggy gives it a couple of shakes and shoves it back into his loose tracky bottoms.

“Eyes up here, mate.”  And the little chav has the nerve to laugh, to send him a two fingered salute as Charlie stands there trying not to piss on his own shoes.

It happens again, because the universe hates him and he hasn’t been able to shake the thought of that beast all day; he swears he’s not staring, but Eggy still laughs, and this time when Charlie takes down his own zip for a piss, it’s Eggy who whistles low.

“Well, with that in your pants, I’m not surprised you want a look at a real one.”

Charlie’s going to punch his stupid chav face in.

It’s Rufus who comes up with the idea, or at least mentions it.  He’s reminiscing about the good old days at Harrow, longingly talking about fagging the younger boys in such rose-coloured misty memories that Charlie wants to snort and tell him he knows he’s making it up.  He’s about to do so when—

“—now he’s a one who enjoyed the cream cracker!  I daresay he always contrived to lose.”  Rufus’s claim makes Digby snigger, but it makes a hot wave sweep over Charlie.  He knows what Rufus is claiming about the younger student—they’re all three public school boys; of course they all know what Rufus is saying.  The rumour’s insidious, set in any public school from Harrow to Eton, and even the pikeys have heard it, but that doesn’t make it true.  The cream cracker’s an apocryphal rumour, a dirty urban legend, and as far as he knows, no one’s actually done it since the 1950s.

It’s perfect for putting Eggy in his place.

Charlie starts slyly.  “I’d bet,” he says, then waits until their eyes are on him again, attentive as they’re meant to be.  “I’d bet he’d do that.  Lose on purpose.  I caught him staring at my cock the other day,” he tells them.  “Eggy.  Just looking; I thought he was going to drop to his knees right then and there.  He looked like he was going to wet himself for the privilege.”

Digby’s lip curls with disgust.  He’s just the far side of acceptably homophobic, and that plays directly into Charlie’s hands.  “I always took him for a pouf,” Digby says, and Rufus sniggers as well.  

“He would,” Charlie insists, and then, “—I’d put money on it.”

It’s not—maybe it’s not kind, playing on Rufus’s recent...family troubles, but he’s got them both where he wants them; Rufus laughs like he’s trying not to care, and Digby looks cruel, lip twisted in a bully’s pleasure.  “Yeah, but where would we do it?  Every inch of this place is being watched by the bald fellow.  I don’t fancy—” Rufus says with an exaggerated shudder.

“I think we could—” Charlie starts, and just like that, they’re planning this thing.  He shivers.

The next step is bringing Eggy into the game.  Charlie watches him for a week, hunting for the right vulnerable moment, but Eggy beats him to it—they’ve just come out of their tactical assessment and Digby’s off in the medical wing nursing what’s probably a broken collarbone; he’s not long for the programme, and Charlie knows he’ll have to step up his plans—corners him in the toilets again with one threatening arm over his shoulder.

“I don’t know why you keep lookin’ at me.  Every time I look up, it’s to your mug staring.”  Eggy says.  There’s something patient, something patronising in it, and Charlie’s lip curls.  He’s about to deny it, then inspiration strikes:

“Well, I was trying to decide if Rufus was right about you.  I believe he was, you know, but I was trying to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

“Sure you was,” Eggsy scoffs.  “You gonna watch me piss again?  I mean, I know what you toffs get up to in your posh schools.  I didn’t go to one of them, though—you ain’t gonna give me the Oxford Rub.”

“Like you could get into Oxford if you—” Charlie spits, then.  He laughs, shoving back the indignation.  “You wouldn’t last in a school like Oxford.  Rufus says—and I agree; I’ve watched you—he says you’d bow out at the first chance.  Wouldn’t even play because your cock is so small.”

“Don’t make me laugh, mate,” Eggy says then.  “He’s right.  I won’t play anything like that—whack off onto each other and pretend it means you’re straight.”

“See?”  Charlie shrugs.  “I mean, I knew you wouldn’t have the nerve—”

“It ain’t nerve, bruv.  I don’t wanna whip it out for you to stare at is all.”

And he can’t help it; Charlie bristles.  “You do think highly of yourself—”

“—but I’ve caught you.  Looking at it.  Several times.  Right now, you’re trying to look at it.  I may not be rich, I may not have more cash than I know what to do with, but it don’t make me stupid, bruv.  I’m not some fucking idiot.”

“No.  You’re a coward, a—a pussy,” Charlie tells him, and finally Eggy’s face crumples in irritation.

“What’d you just fucking say?”

“It’s why you won’t.  You’re scared you’d lose, aren’t you?  We’d prove ourselves your betters, prove you’re not man enough to be here.”

“Man enough?  Icing a biscuit?”  Eggy laughs, short and sharp.  “You wanted to suck my knob, you could have just asked.”

“You only wish I wanted to—to do that,” Charlie sputters, and it’s not what he means.  He doesn’t sound like he wants to sound; he sounds childish and pathetic.  Eggy turns to go.  “A bet!” Charlie blurts then, and he doesn’t even know why he wants this so bad.  He wants it, wants to humiliate Eggy, wants to see him kneeling on the ground with their spunk on his tongue, wants—

“Yeah?” Eggy asks, but he sounds like he’s humouring him.  “What, then?”

“I,” Charlie starts, but what can he have that Eggy wants?  “If you lose, you fag for me the rest of the training process.  You carry my pack, you feed my dog, you clean my rifle.”

“That better not be a euphemism.”

“Hey, if you want to do that, too—” Charlie offers with a gracious smile.  Eggy scowls.

“And if I win, you shut the fuck up.  No more ‘chav’, no more ‘oik’, no more ‘scholarship kid’, no more ‘charity case’.  ‘Oxfam poster boy.’  You leave me the fuck alone, you stop talking shit.”  Eggy pauses.  “—Digby and Rufus, too; Christ, all three of you sound like the fucking Sloane Ranger cricket team.”

“Deal.”  And Charlie even shakes his hand.

And that’s how they end up standing in a loose circle behind the stables, trousers and pants around their knees.  It’s just the four of them, Eggy and Rufus and Digby and Charlie, surrounding a single cream cracker with their cocks out.  No one’s hard yet, even a little, and for a hot, stinging moment Charlie knows that this was a bad idea.  There’s as much shame in winning first as there is in losing; the sweet spot is to land in the middle, to prove that it wasn’t being surrounded by men that got you off but to avoid being last at all costs.  He wraps his hand around his cock and the others follow suit.

“We all know the rules, yeah?” Charlie says, and Eggy gives a quiet grunt.

“Yeah,” says Rufus.  “We rub off, and last one to come gets dessert: glazed biscuit.”

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Eggy mutters then.  

“On my count,” Charlie tells them.  His hands are sweaty; he shifts and his cock twitches from the friction.  Eggy mutters under his breath.  “Three.  Two.  One.”  His breath catches in his throat, expanding and contracting like a bellows is caught inside his chest.  “Go.”

And.  And oh—Charlie keeps his eye on the cracker, of course he does, but from the corner of his eye he watches, sees Rufus strip his cock in efficient pulls and Digby reaching down to rub at his bollocks, but.  But Eggy tangles his fist in the hem of his night shirt, stretching the jersey out until he’s got it wrapped in a knot.  The fabric draws tight and lifts away, and Charlie can see his stomach, the taut flat of his abdomen and the delicate, folded wrinkle of his navel.  Eggy’s got muscles on him like an underwear model, cut and firm and—Charlie’s stomach gives a lurch and he’s fully hard.  He tears his gaze back to the wafer between them.

It’s.  He can hear them, all four of them, can hear heavy, stifled breathing and the slick pull of skin on skin.  They’ve each got a rhythm, a technique: Rufus goes too fast, and it can’t feel good; Charlie spares a glance at his face where it’s twisted around the sensation of his hand on his cock.  Digby is too slow, touches too soft; Charlie can’t imagine he’s getting much out of it; Eggy is—Charlie’s hips buck and he’s pressing at the base of his cock and trying not to whine, because Eggy’s skinning back his foreskin, Eggy’s teasing his tip with gentle fingertips, Eggy’s pushing those fingertips into his mouth and bringing them, slick and shining, back down to touch himself.  It’s like they’re not even there, and Charlie can’t even look anymore.  His skin prickles.

He’s not surprised that it’s Rufus who comes first.  Rufus groans as he pops off, his hand a blur on his cock until he’s shuddering, shaking it over the biscuit in thick streaks.  His legs go out from under him, and then he’s panting on the grass with his cock out.  Now—

Now the first one has gone.  The next two are safe; there’s no shame in being second, third, and a tension opens between them, leeches its way into the air until it’s thick with the sound of boys with their cocks in their fists, the smell of them.  Charlie figures it’ll be him next, but Digby surprises him, gives a little shout and squirts.  Now it’s just Charlie and Eggy, and as shameful as it is, Charlie knows exactly how to win: he slides his eyes over to Eggy’s moving wrist, to Eggy’s hips that are jerking in desperate little pumps now, to Eggy’s—

To Eggy’s eyes, fixed on him.  To Eggy’s face, twisted in pleasure, to Eggy’s—Charlie sighs, eyes falling shut in frustration, in arousal, in beatific orgasm—to Eggy’s cock, twitching in his grasp.  To Eggy’s mouth, screwed up in a snarl, to Eggy, coming.  Charlie’s cock gives a last thump, and it’s like someone’s plucked a cord between his navel and the deepest root of his cock as he comes and he comes and he comes.

Charlie’s lashes are fluttery when he finally manages to get his eyes open.  He’s kneeling; he didn’t even notice falling, but his pyjamas are grass-stained and spattered with drops of semen.  He groans and scrubs a hand across his eyes.

“You lose.”  Eggy’s voice is cool, not smug or indifferent.  Charlie glares at him.  It was supposed to be him on the grass, supposed to be—the biscuit gleams where it’s dripping, and Charlie’s stomach catches, some aftershock plucking at that string again.  His bollocks twinge.  “Don’t you have to—your rules, innit?”  He has to—

“It’s a stupid game, though.  Clearly Charlie doesn’t have to—” Digby tries.  There’s a pale green wash to his skin.

“No?” Eggy asks.  “So if it were me that lost—”

“It was only a joke, anyway,” Rufus says sullenly.  “You weren’t even supposed to say yes.”

And Eggy’s eyes are on him, sharp.  Charlie had wanted him to play.  Charlie still wants—the biscuit is still a little warm between his fingers, or rather, the.  He looks up at Eggy from where he kneels on the ground.

“Eat it up, there’s a lad,” Eggy tells him.

And Charlie does.


End file.
